The King of Kings Is A Jock????

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From the “Now, I’ve Seen Everything Department”.

So, I couldn’t sleep because Morpheus skipped my house—again— and mockingly refused me slumber,  I went a-blogging, to check out the competition. To see what’s up. You know, if you look, you can find the weirdness you seek.

On this night, I was looking for stuff and I found a site selling Jesus action figures.

He’s rough–he’s buff and he’s doing real dare-devil, He-Man stuff not ever even attempted by that boi of butch brawniness, Race Bannon, the sexually ambiguous , yet rather ponderous factotum of a one, Dr. Benton Quest.  You know,  Johnny’s dad.  

Here’s Jesus now, scoring a GGGGOOOOOAAAAAALLLLLLL for God:

Jesus lept.

At first I thought someone at the We Are Fishermen website (or maybe it was a blog) was actually lampooning the Lord, but I soon realized this wasn’t the case. These are real, by God action figures in about seven or eight different poses displaying various acts of machismo prowess and selling for about 30-bucks each.

Here’s Jesus as what I call the “Big Christhoona”, hanging ten….as in commandments.

“Thou shalt NOT wipe out, Dude “..

You gotta wonder about the crass commercialization about the man perceived as the “King of Kings” by more than a billion Christians.

Segue.

Years ago, when I had just graduated from college,  a friend and I were in Laredo staying with a very Mexican, very Catholic family. There were crosses everywhere, in every room and these weren’t just crosses; I’m talking Jesus in full crucifixion reproduction, complete with the guilt inducing nail wounds in the hands and feet and dripping blood.

My friend and I shared the bedroom and as soon as the lights went out, my very Protestant roomate looked up and said “Oh my God!! Jesus’ eyes are glowing!”

I looked up and he was looking at me.

I had this strange desire to get up and wash my hands.

Segue again.

I’m all for anyone believing in anything that gets them through their life. I can’t and won’t cast aspersions. I mean, my life could make Mary Magdalene look like a saint.

Wait….she is one, right?

But gee Wally, shouldn’t taste, decorum and propriety coming into play?

I’m not sure what form of “action” the above figurine is supposed to represent. I see this particular Jesus wearing a white trench coat, camo colored Capri pants, Doc Martens and what appears to be a pith helmet by his right leg. His crown of thorns appears to have been replaced by a wreath of lovely Jonquils.

The dove must be the requisite wise-cracking sidekick.

Maybe this is “Fashion Faux Paux Jesus” and he patrols the runways of Milan, Paris and New York looking to save fashion victims from themselves. He flies up and down the streets of Hell’s Kitchen where flop houses reign supreme.   If he gets in a jam, he and Doug (his trusty sidekick dove) throw down the pith helmet and it immediately converts into a Goldfinger mini-plane, flown by???? You guessed it—–Pontious Pilot.

(Thunderclap, a lightning bolt and I repent…..)

Teetering on blasphemous and sacriledge? Maybe, but I really don’t think there’s anything wrong with these action figures, what I’ve written or Glow-In-The-Dark Jesus, for that matter.

I am, as the ubiquitous “they” say, a recovering Catholic. But I’ve learned more about spirituality just trying to live my life  more than anything taught to me by the Mother Church.

I know that faith is an extraordinary thing.  WEspecially on those occaisions when I didn’t have it.   It is powerful beyond comprehension. And in this day and age of avarice and greed with disappointment usurping joy at just about every turn, if we don’t have faith, we don’t have hope and if we don’t have either, then why bother? 

The bigger question then becomes, why would we want to? If we need to use tools (rosary beads or Mary statues adorned with flowers in our front yards) to help us fortify our convictions, then I ask–why the hell not?

Look, I can’t remember when the last time I went to Mass, but I can tell you the date and time I had my last conversation with God….my God.  And I know that the God I worship, has a sense of humor. He gave us the ability to laugh because well, it is ALL of His design.

So, whatever floats your boat.

Or forces Michael to row it ashore.   Halle–lu–ooh–jah.

.b

Help Me Understand Something Here

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When many women get together we talk about men, mainly how much men make us crazy.   I’m sure the subject of kids, mean bosses, money woes, hair, problem periods and how much ‘unhappy’ weight our friend, Anna Lee has gained might creep in, but chances are, the conversation will begin and more than likely, will end with the fact that men make us crazy.    

Now, why is that?   And I’m not talking about the fact that we’re even talking about all this imposed lunacy,  but that we actually feel we’re made total loons by dangly examples of male genetic coding.   And why is this the subject of endless conversation?

While the Penis People perplex me, I’m also baffled by the things women suggest to other women to secure that elusive relationship.  

CASE IN POINT:    I was involved in a conversation recently where one women (in a fairly new relationship) was told that when HE calls,  she should only occasionally answer her phone.  In other words, don’t be there when He calls, even if she’s holding the damn phone in her hand.   “Don’t be too available”, this one woman  insists.   

Huh?    

There’s a limit on the number of times a woman should answer her phone?  Did I miss something somewhere?  Was this mandate a part of the Helsinki Accords and I didn’t know it?  The couple in question is mature;  comprised of two people  in their mid-50′s who’ve both been married before.   Is this mind game of answer/don’t answer really relevant?   And at their age, could NOT answering actually deal a more fatal blow to the relationship than answering it????    This was offered up as advice, as was acting cavalier; that she should send herself a bouquet of flowers, and pretend she had places to go and God knows what else. 

Then, the woman in this now three month old relationship then asked if there were subtle cues that might indicate he really cares for her and that he is slowly but surely investing time and emotion in the relationship.    She looked at me; I shook my head in the negative and made a slight sweeping gesture to a mutual friend sitting beside me.    Ask her;  not me.    I am the WORST person to ask.  

Here’s what she allowed:   they’re in the midst of a long distance relationship that now in it’s third month.   He is an  attorney by trade but is a musician on the side.  She told us that he sometime calls her to serenade her with a song.   He plays the guitar and sometimes, he plays it for  her.

We all went very chickish on that one; we all  “awe’d” at the same time.  

Sometimes, he even sings for her; just her…on the phone.

Again with the awes.

But wait…there’s more.   

He recently changed his cell phone/long distance provider to hers so they could talk as long as they wanted.   Love among the “Anytime Minutes”;  it is indeed fiber awe-ptics.

At a restaurant he knew she’d be frequenting,  he once called ahead and ordered her favorite bottle of wine be brought to her table.  He timed it just right;  the bottle arrived as he was boarding a plane to fly out of state to attend a legal conference.

He calls her in the morning to help her greet the day and then will call to say goodnight before she goes to bed.

He sends her beautiful Sterling roses, for no reason at all.

He calls to tell her about a beautiful sunset that hes’looking at from his West Texas vantage point or a strange cloud formation that  made him laugh because it looks a lot like Ed Asner.  

He learns to play the songs she likes and even calls her in the middle of a “gig” to allow her the chance to hear the song being performed.   Her song.  It makes her cry she says and she can’t help but feel this incredible warmth embrace her heart and soul.  

He’s starting to use the Magic Pronouns on his own–and unprompted:  we, ours and us.

And every once in a while, he calls her ‘Baby’…and yes, it’s in that way.

Now,  I know how women are and we can be bitches.  We know DAMN good and well that the men in our lives are in fact, the men in our lives, but we like to rub that point in.  We know that they love us, but we want our girlfriends to know they love us, so we feign that we are clueless as to their real feelings.  We tell anyone who’ll listen that these are his gestures, but what…WHAT do they mean???

We want to hear our friends tell us we’re lucky; that we’ve found our Prince Charming;  the one that will always stay a prince and never morph into a frog even after repeated kissing.   

Was this what that woman with her attorney/guitar player was doing?    Maybe, but what the hell.  I’ll indulge her.  I think I’ll call her later to tell her that even though I have ruined more relationships than Herpes,  it sounds to me that based on his actions, this man likes her—a lot—but I don’t for one minute think answering his phone calls or not will make a difference one way or the other. 

I’ll also hammer home the point that as far as I can tell,  love is something one ‘senses’.  

I would tell her that I believe there are times when  “I love you” sounds like music.

That it sometimes  feels like incredible, all encompassing warmth.

That it often tastes like your favorite wine and smells like roses.

And that there are those times, when love looks like a beautiful West Texas sunset….or Ed Asner in a white, gaseous state hovering at about 6,500 feet in the sky.

;.